


the morning light has washed your sins

by crickets



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-05
Updated: 2009-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 02:53:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crickets/pseuds/crickets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the morning light has washed your sins

They settle near one of the larger groups, close enough to feel the safety in numbers, but not any closer than that.

There are questions Gaius wants to ask her, things he wants to say.

_But he doesn't._

The sky is too blue, and the ground is too lush, and the water too clean. He can't bring himself to taint its purity with talk of the past. He watches Caprica pick flowers in the field as he cleans the first potatoes of the crop, fresh from the dirt. Though small, each of the nourishing roots is a tiny victory.

She brings him the flowers, pale blue in color, puts them in a tin cup filled with water and sets them on the stump beside him.

"It's a special occassion," she says, picking up the long stick at her feet to stoke the fire. "We're not just hunter-gatherers anymore."

"No," he laughs, "I suppose we've evolved."  
\--

They both carry guilt. Too much. And they sleep with it heavy each night, wedged between them. It's something they'll never fully be able to release. Some nights, like tonight, she wakes in the dark, pulls a blanket around her shoulders and steps out of their shelter, barefoot into the grass, her face bent towards the sky. And though clouds sometimes hide them, she can usually see the stars.

She sits. Wonders. Does she deserve the feel of the ground beneath her feet? Does she deserve to be happy?

(Because she _is_ happy. Despite it all.)

She remembers the look on his face on the day the bombs fell, overcome with the knowledge that his carelessness, his ego, are partly to blame for bringing his own civilization to its knees, the finality of knowing that despite his selfishness, there is no more ambiguity to be had about what kind of person he is. He is now, unequivocally, the very _worst_ kind.

And she too.

Now, she can feel him behind her and he calls her name. The name she had before the war, before _Caprica_. The name that only he knew.

She turns to him and he holds his hand out to her.

"Come back inside," he says. "It's cold in there without you."

_-fin_


End file.
